


The Last Disease

by Marvelite5Ever



Series: Short, unrelated Cablepool fics inspired by songs (these are NOT songfics) [6]
Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Ash - Freeform, F/M, Gen, I can't tell though, I don't even know anymore, I started writing this at midnight, I think this might be evil, I write really fucking weird shit sometimes, I wrote this trying to fix it, Loneliness, M/M, Read at Your Own Risk, Wade finally figures out why he couldn't stop killing, but only slightly - Freeform, don't say you weren't warned, my mind just feels a little broken, power, shit is broken, somewhat inspired by the song "Professional Griefers" by Deadmau5, that means you, that's probably all you need to know, this is really fucking weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:42:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marvelite5Ever/pseuds/Marvelite5Ever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has ended. And all that's left is Deadpool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Disease

Deadpool's mouth tasted like ash. Acrid and burnt. 

Of course, his mouth tasted like ash because he'd rolled back his mask and tipped back his head to catch flakes of ash on his tongue as they fell from the smoke-congested sky like snow. 

His mouth tasted like ash. The sky was the color of ash. The city of New York around him had been reduced to rubble and ash. 

Ash, ash, ash, ash, ash, ash, ash, ash, ash, ash, ash, ash, ash, ash, ash.

The word fell from Wade's lips again and again and again, till he'd roll a pillow of air in his mouth that made his burnt tongue tingle. 

Ash, ash, ash, ash, ash, ash, ash.

Wade said the word again and again till it was reduced to nothing but a hissing, hushing noise that held no meaning. 

Ash. 

What an odd word. A word where the tongue never touched anything. A word that was all air and no contact. A word that was nothing but a soft breath of air. A soft word. A word for the gray tranquility that settled after an ardent burning. 

An oh, how the world had burned. How ardently the world had burned. Flames of yellow and orange and red, flames of blue and green, vicious, lip-smacking flames that blazed so brilliantly beneath a black sky. 

Deadpool had had to cut his lungs out of his chest, they'd been so clogged with black smoke. 

The new lungs he'd grown were as pure as the ashen world around him. 

Black skeletons of buildings that cut into the bright gray skyline were being slowly softened with flakes of ash, blanketing the bare metal bones like snow. Pure, pristine snow. Pristine as Deadpool's new lungs that inhaled and exhaled so calmly that one wouldn't have been able to tell he was breathing unless they pressed a hand over his barely parted lips to feel the hot, damp air leaving them. 

But there was nobody there to see him and how calmly he breathed. Nobody there to see how he stood still as a statue—the red of his suit the sole dab of color in a dead city of gray and darker gray and black—except for the tapping of his left foot that stirred up the ash like a flurry of snowflakes. 

Deadpool's left foot had always tapped whenever he had to stand still for more than ten seconds. Even if all the world was dead and gone, some things wouldn't change. 

“I bet you're throwing a helluva party, Death,” Wade murmured, the white eyes of his mask blank but the twitch of his ashen lips amused. “Such a shame I had to deny your invitation yet again.” The gap of air between ash-coated lips twitched apart wider. “How many invitations have you sent me over the years that I've been unable to heed? The Underworld must really be hoppin' now that everyone's dead.” 

A laugh, as bright and pristine as the ash that was only a few shades lighter than snow. “Is this what it was like, Death? Before Life existed? Before the first life expired?” He kicked up the gray ash with a black boot, grinning as he watched the flakes fall. “Is this what it was like, Nate? When you had all the power in the world and no way to use it? Is this what Power feels like? Loneliness?” 

Deadpool flicked out a knife and dragged it over his thumb just to watch the red drop of blood that welled there, to see how it glowed like a flame in a land of black and lighter black and and black that was lighter still but would never quite be white. 

“How many dictators and tyrants over the course of history must have figured out that Power feels like Loneliness,” Wade mused, licking the blood from his thumb, the taste of salt and copper as vibrant as a fire in his ashen mouth. 

Slowly he turned in a circle, mask-covered eyes gazing over the scorched skelton of New York City. The ash was still falling, and like snow it blanketed everything so that soundwaves were absorbed, and everything was silent except for Wade's soft voice that barely made it centimeters from his mouth. “All Alone at the Top Of The World. Never thought that Loneliness could feel so much like Power.” 

Another laugh then, but this one was harsh and wild—no longer tranquil like the falling ash, but vibrant and vicious and violent and giddy as the crackling flames that had burned the World down, the sizzling (of the World's flesh) and the cracking (of the World's bones) and the popping (of the World's joints) and the snapping (of the World's ligaments) so loud it had drowned out the pained screams as lives and Life burned alive. 

Life had burned Alive. And then Life was Dead, and existed no more as Life but merged with Death, so that all that remained was Metal, which was Immortal, and Deadpool, who was Undead and therefore wasn't Alive and therefore could never be Dead because he was not Alive but Not-Dead—not the Opposite of what Death was so much as the Cruel Mutation of what was Death.

Even Wolvie had been Alive, as it turned out—he'd just hidden from Life well. But Life had caught up with him, and therefore so had Death, and all that was left was the Metal of his bones, because those had been Immortal in a way that Logan himself never had been. 

They should have known, really. They all should have known that Logan was Alive since his brain was Scarred—scars were evidence of Injury which was evidence of Death because Injury was only important because of its direct link with Death. 

Injury was Life being let slipped. 

And Deadpool laughed at the smooth, clear skin that now graced his eyes when he lifted his bare hand before his face, because the Scars there had never been Scars—they'd never been evidence of Injury, just evidence of the Cancer, the Cruel Mutation of Death—the Chaos that kept his mind and body in a perpetual state of Not-Alive-Not-Dead—a perpetual Flux, and the only constant had been that the rules were always changing. 

And Deadpool realized now, drunk on the acrid, copper taste of Power and Loneliness, that he had killed as way to define himself, since only in those brief moments of watching Life and Death touch—like the top of a flipped coin's arc, that split second where the coin changed from moving upwards to falling downwards—could he find himself. 

Only in those brief moments did he ever understand the Not-Dead state in which he Not-Lived. Only in those brief moments was he ever truly at peace inside himself. 

Killing to him had been what Writing was for the Writer, what Painting was for the Painter, what Music was for the Musician, what Dancing was to the Dancer. Not a job—not even a hobby—but an Act of Definition. An act of Defining and Expression where everything, for that Moment, made Sense. Where the mind was Clear and Ordered and Pure. 

The World had Ended, and in that moment Deadpool had never felt more Pure. 

The Flames, neither Alive nor Dead, caught in some mutated place in-between, had made Deadpool feel like he Belonged, in a way that nothing and nobody else ever had. 

And now, standing in the middle of a Dead city in a Dead World, Wade missed the Flames' destruction more than anything. He missed the act of Destroying; of Breaking. 

The Breaking of the World had been beyond beautiful. But now the World was full of Broken Things, and there was nothing left to Break except for him. 

So Deadpool climbed a skyscraper's skeleton and then jumped off, just to hear the beautiful sound of his bones Breaking. 

Because in that brief moment, right as his bones gave way—he found his moment of Definition. 

Deadpool had always wanted to Die, yes—but he'd never wanted to be Dead. He just didn't realize it at the time what he was really searching for every time he killed himself. 

Death was Defined, in her element, and maybe that was why Deadpool had loved her. Because she embodied an eternal Moment of Definition in a way he could only capture for the briefest glimpses. 

Bones reknitting together—and yes, there, right as his bones went from Broken to Whole, Deadpool's Definition was there in that brief Moment—Deadpool stood up, looked at the ashen sky, and laughed. 

Because that Moment—however brief it was—had been enough to show him that he was not Alone. Not as long as there was Fire. 

There was no wood, but he still had flint and steel. 

He lit his mask on Fire, relishing in the acrid scent of the smoke and the glowing, blackening edges of the red fabric as it curled in on itself, the blackened and shriveled heart within the ravenous Flames. 

And then everything that could burn had been burnt except for him. So he lit himself on Fire, and danced and laughed as he burned. 

In a constant state of Not-Alive-Not-Dead, it was likely he could just keep burning forever, the sole dab of color in a Dead World of black and gray and rubble and skeletons and ash that fell like snow.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes with Deadpool, I start writing Deadpool Logic that doesn't make any sense, up until the point where it starts making sense, and then it seems to make a lot of sense, and then I wonder if it actually makes sense or if I'm just crazy and only think that it makes sense because Wade thinks it makes sense and I get to the point where I literally can't even tell how crazy Wade is any more. 
> 
> And I might also be really tired and posting this before I have a chance to second-guess myself and wonder why the hell I'm posting this word vomit I should probably let it languish on my laptop where it can't hurt anyone.
> 
> But nonetheless! Any thoughts on this piece?


End file.
